


A Personal Stand for Peace

by Uniasus



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Vanity, War Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uniasus/pseuds/Uniasus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunstreaker loves being good looking and loves fighting a good battle. It just that, sometimes they don't mix.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Personal Stand for Peace

**Author's Note:**

> first on ff.net Sept 2010

Sunstreaker had two loves in life: an energon rushing battle and his good looks. He just never realized that one day he would have to choose between them. 

He grew up in a rough neighborhood, trusting no one but his charismatic brother. Was told to scram a lot, deemed a slagger, fragger, glitch, and offspring of Unicron. So was Sides, but the red twin was also known as a black market genius, excellent trader, and smooth talker. Sunstreaker? He was the gloomy mech that hung around his brother like a lonely sparkling. 

The first positive thing ever said to him was about his looks. Sides had been striking up a bargain with a couple of mechs upstairs. The owners of the building, a spa for upper middle class were hoping to get a hold of several rare mineral and had heard Sideswipe could get them. Which left Sunstreaker alone on the ground floor. 

It was late; the shop had been locked up and closed for the night. But the vats of solvents were still warm and it had been impossible to ignore them. So he climbed in. 

It had been bliss, if hurried so his brother and the patrons of the spa didn’t find him. Usually his baths involved a bottle of oil and a dirty cloth, and to feel mineralized solution soak into his armor had been wonderful. It wasn’t until he climbed out did he realize someone had watch him the entire time from a dark corner. Someone small and impossible to tell what model they were, the hallway lights unable to penetrate that far into the room. 

“You’re beautiful,” it said in a soft whisper, causing Sunstreaker to freeze, solvent slowly pooling beneath his feet. He stared at the other Cybertronian, then quickly ducked his head as he hurried to the drying racks. Beautiful, him!

He had laughed at that thought, keeping the noise silent as his brother came down the stairs, but as the night progressed his internal laughter got quite. Throughout the next day he found himself looking into reflexive surfaces, preening absent mindedly. Him, beautiful. He rather liked the sound of that. It was certainly better than gloomy. 

But before he feel in love with his appearance, he had enjoyed battle. Sideswipe was good in a fight, but more often than not he needed a hand when there was more than two to take care of. It was after the war though he developed a passion for it. 

Among the troops, it wasn’t how many battle you were in as how many D-Cons you killed that was a rep builder. And Sunstreaker killed a lot. His first had been…messy, something that haunted him for awhile, but in war you either took out your opponent or got taken out yourself. So he took them down, energon singing in his lines and a smile on his face. It was dangerous, fast, all about precision and timing. Sunstreaker had an eye for art, being an artist himself, and fighting was simply a high-risk dance. It made him feel alive. 

He was good too, dealing out much more damage than he retrieved. His scars were small and easily hidden, so his vanity rarely was challenged. Didn’t mean he didn’t fuss about scratched paint and welding while in the med bay. 

But of course his loves would come head to head one day. Cybertron was almost dry of resources, armor plates couldn’t be replaced after every injury, and when it came down to himself or Sideswipe getting hurt, Sunstreaker would always throw himself in front of the blow. Which was of course how he landed in this slag. 

Sunstreaker wished the reflection he was looking at was distorted, but previous use of the same surface caused him to toss the idea out. It was himself that was distorted. Uneven armor full of dents that his auto repair system would fix eventually, raised and bumby welding, even different types of armor. His had been so slagged that Ratchet had to piece together full plates by using what was left of his and of some other mech’s who hadn’t survived the battle. The mineral composition and finish was all wrong.

He wasn’t beautiful anymore.

Maybe he could be, given enough vorns for his naninites to even out his armor and fix the welding, but that would only be if nothing changed from now to then. Which considering he was fighting a war was not likely to happen. He would get injured again, end up with more welds and patchy armor. If he wanted to be fixed, he would have to stop fighting. 

Sunstreaker wasn’t sure or not if it was a surprise that he found himself contemplating such a thing. 

Right now, fighting was his life. It gave him purpose, got him praise, and certainly earned a respect from his peers that his looks never merited. But being good came at a price. He was sent into the more dangerous battles. And in the milder ones was constantly ordered by the officers to help so and so and then this other so and so, making him cross the battlefield multiple times and making him feel like a household drone being beckoned to help clean up a mess. Outside of battle and the immediate afterglow, he was once again the gloomy mech that followed Sideswipe. 

He felt like…a tool. As if his love of battle was not really of his choosing but something forced on him because others loved his skills. It was what he did, not what he was. Loosing his skills would not harm him, cause him duress. This loss of beauty…did. 

It was hard to say way, good looks didn’t give him anything but a sense of self pride, but maybe that was what he needed. Something to feel good about, something that didn’t result in bad memories resurfacing while he recharged. Something…peaceful. 

Didn't they all strive for peace, or at least say it? And yet the war continued and soon materials would be gone but Sunstreaker still saw battlefields awash in energon because if the war had gone on this long surely it would go on even farther. Mechs would be sent into battle half armed because there would simply not be enough metal to cover internal wiring. Their race would die out quicker than it already was. So much for peace. 

But his desire to be beautiful, to be acknowledged as a person and not a tool, did not hurt anyone. Was it not a calm goal? Hurting only pride and ego instead of destroying limbs and lives? Wasn’t it a peaceful goal, a peaceful love?

He fingered marks on his left arm, remembering when it was smooth and iridescent, when his fingers practiced strokes on canvas to be repeated on his own body. He had been happier then, if less respected. 

They would call him vain, when he told them he didn’t want to fight anymore. Would stare in confusion as he asked to be on a work crew, maybe minding the engines or something because it was dirty work. But oil could be rubbed off; he’d done it before. 

Sunstreaker didn’t believe that Prime would understand this, but hoped he would at least grant him his wish. Fighting was old and got him no where, but his older love, his more treasured love for beauty in himself and others, might.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm not exactly sure what to say. But I rather like this one. I thought it would have been a struggle to write the bunny 'what if Sunny was so upset over his looks he gave up fighting' because I found it hard to picture good ole Sunny as not fighting...but as I wrote I could just hear him thinking and it seemed so natural it took me by surprise. Not exactly sure the ending is at it should be, but it'll have to do for now.


End file.
